j o s h n o t e s

Yes, the internet was right: rain was general all over San Francisco. It was falling on every part of the Mission, on the Haight, falling softly upon the Lake of Stow and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Pacific waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely tower on the hill. Our souls swooned slowly as we heard the rain falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

—with apologies to James Joyce

For most of us, there is only the unattended / Moment, the moment in and out of time, / The distraction fit, lost in a shaft of sunlight, / The wild thyme unseen, or the winter lightning / Or the waterfall, or music heard so deeply / That it is not heard at all, but you are the music / While the music lasts.

—T.S. Eliot, “The Dry Salvages” (No. 3 of Four Quartets)

Words strain, / Crack and sometimes break, under the burden, / Under the tension, slip, slide, perish, / Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place, / Will not stay still.

—T.S. Eliot, “Burnt Norton” (No. 1 of Four Quartets)